


And Then There Were Three

by KnightNight7203



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7628770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightNight7203/pseuds/KnightNight7203





	1. Chapter 1

Jack comes home in a rage, as she’d known he would the second she heard what everyone was talking about in the streets. He takes it to heart every time someone is hurt in a strike, but he’d talked with those construction workers, even considered joining them. The news hit him hard.

“It ain’t fair.”

She doesn’t move from where she’s curled on the couch. Really, she’d like to pull him into her arms and not let go until he’s stopped shaking, but she knows he probably doesn’t want that right now. She sees the way his fists are clenching and unclenching at his sides, and that’s never a good sign.

“I know, Jack.”

He goes on as if he didn’t hear her. “What part of this do those cops have such a hard time understanding, anyway. Times ain’t easy for any of us – don’t they see where we’re coming from? What part of them sees a bunch of poor guys fightin’ for something we all need and says, I know what to do, let’s _bash their damn heads in_?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.” She feels sick. She was already throwing up all morning, and this certainly isn’t helping matters.

“I wish they’d be sorry. Someone should _make_ them sorry.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Ace–“

“I know.” Now he does fall into her arms, and she lets him burrow his face in her shoulder. She can tell he’s trying to hold back tears.

“I don’t think you do.”

She blinks. “What?”

“You don’t know – I was _there,_ Ace. I saw it. It wasn’t provoked, there wasn’t anything goin’ on except people standing there, and then the cops come in and there was blood all over and I know they ain’t getting up again–“

“Jack,” she breathes, but he isn’t even listening.

“THEY BUSTED THEIR HEADS OPEN WITH THEIR DAMN CLUBS!”

She curls away from him, hands unconsciously coming up to cover her ears, and he shakes his head, pressing a kiss to her cheek in apology before wandering away to fall into a chair. “Sorry, Ace,” he whispers, his voice broken. “Sorry.” She thinks he’s shocked she didn’t shout back — normally she would. But today she’s just too tired for a fight.

He sits there without moving for half an hour.

She watches him over the pages of her book, inexplicably concerned for him in a way she isn’t sure she could articulate. But she’s seen him upset before, heard him joke flippantly with a dark undertone about that night after the strike when Crutchie was taken and the boys thought they had lost everything. It’s not without reason that he scares her when he’s like this.

Finally he stirs, grabbing a canvas and a pile of paint from a drawer and setting up by the easel without looking at her. The painting that begins to take shape is angry, full of thick black lines and dark red splashes, but it’s probably therapeutic. She finally feels she can leave him alone and wanders into the kitchen to try to find him something to eat.

The smell of the leftovers from their dinner the night before makes her stomach turn, but she holds her breath and carefully arranges it on their nicest plate anyway. She tries to smile when she returns, holding out the plate to him. He shakes his head.

“Don’t wanna eat,” he grunts, adding another slash of dark color.

“Jack, you have to,” she says, frowning at him. “You haven’t eaten all day. You’re shaking. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I can’t,” he says, his voice tense. She can see the muscles of his jaw standing out as he clenches his teeth.

“You can–“ she starts to say, her voice impatient, but he spins toward her, hand outstretched.

They both watch, as if time has slowed down, the porcelain dish twists toward the ground. It hits with a crash, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces on impact. Neither of them breathe. Then she forces herself to.

“Get out,” she says, her voice a deadly calm.

He flinches back, a tortured expression on his face. “Ace–“

“No. That was senseless and _violent,_ Jack! You leave my house, and you do not come back until you’re ready to stop this nonsense.”

She should feel guilty for pulling that card against him, for reminding him that it’s her job that pays the rent and not his, but she has bigger concerns right now. She’s not only thinking for herself anymore.

“Ace, you know I would never–“

“If you can do that, are you any better than them?”

That’s the final straw. He slams the door on his way out. A momentary flash of panic shoots through her mind — did she take it to far? She _knows_ he would never hurt anyone, and it sounded unforgivably like she was implying that he would. What if he doesn’t come back? What if he runs straight to that damn roof again?

He can’t leave her. Maybe he doesn’t know it yet, but she needs him now more than ever. She could never do this on her own.

But she also needs him to be sane.

She sinks to her knees beside the shattered dish, too shocked to cry, too terrified to do anything else. The hours tick by. The sun sets. Still the apartment remains silent.

When it’s dark and her breathing is somewhat even and her legs have long since fallen asleep, she forces herself to her feet and decides to go looking for him.

He could be anywhere. He could have gone to the lodging house, to Davey’s, to the deli, to Brooklyn. He could have gotten on a train to Santa Fe and been halfway across the country. But he’s not. He’s on the fire escape outside of her room, where he used to wait for her when they were nothing but a pair of lovestruck teenagers.

She knows him so well that it was the first place she looked.

He’s curled against the metal bars on the side furthest from the stairs, clutching the posts with white knuckles as if it’s the door to a prison cell. “Jack,” she whispers, but he doesn’t even turn his head.

“You don’t gotta be here,” he rasps, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You hate me. You’re angry. You got every right to be.”

She could point out that he’s still on her property and she has every right to be here, but she doubts that would make him feel better. She could assure him that she could never hate him, but she really hopes that deep down, he knows it. Instead, she says, “I’m not angry. I was upset, yes, but not– I just needed space. We can’t do this, Jack.”

“So don’t,” he whispers back, his voice cracking, and as she crawls closer she can see the tear tracks on his cheeks, the shaking of his shoulders. “Just leave. I ain’t stopping you.”

Instead, she sits down right beside him and pulls him into her arms. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He is silent except for the occasional choking sound as he tries to suppress his sobs, and so is she. She’s not sure what there is to say right now — they’re both upset, and clearly irrational. But finally he meets her eyes, and his are pained.

“I’m not cut out for this, Ace. I know that.” He grips at the railing even more desperately, looking away again. “I ain’t meant to live in a nice place with a pretty girl and a real job. I was barely good enough for the streets.” Her heart breaks for him. He’s crying so badly she’s surprised he managed to get the words out.

“Stop it. Just breathe, okay?” When it’s clear he’s trying to do as she says, shuddering breaths shaking his entire frame, she holds him tighter and presses kisses to the top of his head. “I’m not cut out for this either. I don’t know if anyone is. But we have to figure it out, and pretty quickly.”

“What does that even mean?” he chokes out, and she laughs, rubbing his back comfortingly.

“If you’d shut up a second and stop making me feel terrible, I’d explain everything.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, letting out a breathy laugh. “It’s been a rough day.”

“I know,” she says. “You think I don’t get it, but I do. I was there last time, remember? People were hurt in that rally, too.”

“You didn’t start tryin’ to destroy the apartment, though.” He laughs darkly. “I ain’t surprised you kicked me out.”

“Stop being dramatic. I didn’t kick you out,” she says forcefully. When he scoffs, she shakes him a little. “Don’t you get it, Jack? I am _never_ going to leave you.”

“Me either,” he says. He gives her a little grin, and her heart swells. “But I guess you knew that, huh? I didn’t get further than the end of the block before I turned around.”

“Damn lucky, too,” she retorts, shoving him playfully. “I didn’t want to have to tear the city apart looking for you.” Then she sobers. “I need you.”

“Yeah.” He drags his sleeve roughly across his cheeks, taking a deep breath. Her hand finds his, and he squeezes like it’s a lifeline. “Nothing’s ever gonna come between the two of us, huh?”

She smiles gently at him, her eyes sparkling. Well, she guesses it’s as good a time as any. “No,” she says, laughing at his confused expression. “The three of us.”


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a tiny little flower growing through a crack in the sidewalk in front of their apartment building, and Katherine thinks it’s the most magical thing in the world. Well — almost.

Of course, the little creature she’s starting to feel inside her takes the prize for most extraordinary. Though she still hides it in public in the interest of keeping her job without a fight, the tiny bump growing at her waist secretly fills her with warmth. But the small plant is special too, breathing life in the form of soft yellow petals into the grimy New York June. The writer in her feels there’s some sort of undeniable connection between the two.

She wants to capture it somehow, but she’s not entirely sure what the best way would be. She can’t exactly write a news article about vegetation sprouting through the cement. It’s too bad she’s never been any good at writing fiction — it’s the sort of flower a princess or an elf maiden might be drawn to, she’s sure. She debates pressing it in one of her dictionaries, but she quite can’t bring herself to pluck it, either.

“It’s just a dandelion, Ace,” Jack says when she takes him to see it, grabbing his hand and dragging him away from his latest cartoon. His hair, unrestrained by a hat since he left it hanging on his easel, is blowing in the wind, and he squints through the sunlight. “It ain’t exactly somethin’ special.”

“It absolutely is,” she says emphatically. She kneels beside it, running a finger along the thin stem. “Look at where it decided to grow — right in front of our house. It’s a miracle. It’s a sign.”

“Oh yeah?” Jack snorts, smearing charcoal on the back of his neck as he rubs it exasperatedly. “What exactly is it a sign about?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she mutters, glowering in a way that makes him retreat hastily, muttering about crazy pregnant ladies. But she doesn’t care that he slinks back inside to finish his drawing, shooting her one last funny look. She sits on the stoop and watches her tiny flower trembling in the breeze for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

The day has been a horrible one since the moment she woke up with an awful stomachache, and it’s only gotten worse. Her attempt at making breakfast results in a pile of burned, smoking toast and an omelet laced with eggshells. The sky darkens without warning halfway through her walk to work, the subsequent downpour catching her unprepared and without an umbrella. She arrives at work five minutes late, only to be informed that her increasingly obvious _condition_ is becoming unprofessional, and that perhaps she should refrain from producing news stories with legitimate interviews until the child is born. This leads to her turning on her heel and stalking out of the office, muttering about writing society _fluff_ from home.

She finds herself scowling down at her stomach as she trudges wearily back toward her apartment. All this baby has given her is unemployment and a backache. Sometimes she wonders why—

_Don’t be stupid_ , she tells herself. She wants this baby, this little mixture of her and Jack who will emerge in a few months as a concrete proof of their love. Of course, that doesn’t make it any easier to walk. Or waddle, which is probably a far more accurate description of her current movements.

When she reaches her house, she drops her key on the ground, and as she bends over in an attempt to retrieve it around the bump, she realizes her little flower is gone.

The stem, brown and dead, lays flat against the groove in the sidewalk, its yellow petals nowhere to be seen. That realization is all it takes to push Katherine over the edge.

Overcome with a wave of negative emotion, she wants to sit down on the stoop and cry about everything — the frustration over her job, the helplessness of carrying an entire living being inside her everywhere she goes, the fact that Jack has to go away this evening to draw cartoons about some rally for steelworkers in Pittsburgh. The raindrops trickling down her face make it impossible to tell if there are tears escaping yet or not.

That’s when the bleeding starts.

“Something’s wrong,” she tells Jack once she’s managed to make her way up the stairs, and he takes one look at her and leaps to his feet. The next few moments — his yells for Davey to get the doctor, the way he gently lifts her off her feet and carries her to their bed — are a blur.

“The doctor’s gonna be here soon,” he tells her, and then he tells her again — at that point, she’s sure he’s reassuring himself. He falls silent, stroking her hand. It’s as if he’s afraid to touch her anywhere else.

She’s afraid to move.

“Jack,” she whispers suddenly, her face pale and tear-streaked. “This is my fault.”

“It ain’t your fault, Ace.” He shakes his head, refuses to even consider a reality where she might be to blame for whatever might be going wrong right now. “You weren’t far enough along for there to be any danger in working, you were eating healthy–“

“Jack — _I wished I wasn’t pregnant.”_

“What?” His head snaps around to face her, his eyes widening. She imagines a terrible accusation there, and struggles to find the words to defend herself.

“I was so upset about work, and the thought just entered my head, and I obviously didn’t mean it and thought about how lucky I was right away, but—“

“Ace. _Ace!_ ” He takes his face between her hands, forces her to meet his gaze. There is nothing but tenderness in his eyes. “Listen to me, sweetheart. It’s still not your fault.”

“Jack—“

“I mean it. I can’t imagine how frustrating this whole thing is for you.”

She chuckles weakly, a wet, tear-filled sound. “It’s worth it. I promise you.”

He smiles down at her. “It will be. When the baby’s born, healthy and beautiful like her mama.”

She whispers a tiny prayer that this future is still a possibility.

But about your work,” he continues, “they can’t just fire you like that. Can they?”

She knows he’s distracting her, but she takes the bait. “Legally?”

“Nah.” He winks at her. “According to your rules.”

She laughs outright, wincing as the movement jostles her stomach. Jack steadies her immediately, his hand enveloping hers over the bump that is their child.

_Please,_ please _let him be safe._

As if Jack can read her mind — at this point, she’s not sure he can’t — he presses a kiss to her head and pulls her close. “Everything is going to be fine.”

She finds it hard to believe him somehow, but before she can tell him so, the door bursts open as the doctor enters and he is hustled away.

* * *

“You’re gonna be fine. You’re _both_ gonna be fine.”

“I know.” Exhausted as she is, she can barely contain her grin. She must have thanked the doctor a hundred times.

“I told you.”

“You were telling yourself.”

“Well …” He grins sheepishly. “Maybe a little.”

She gives a happy, albeit tired, little sigh and shifts slightly so he can lay down beside her. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and tucks his feet beneath hers, so she’s partly on his lap. His free hand drops immediately to her stomach, as if it was drawn there by a magnet.

“She’s okay.”

“ _He’s_ fine,” she corrects, but there’s no annoyance in her voice.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he says cautiously, giving her a sideways look to test if she’s actually angry. She buries her face in his shoulder in surrender and he chuckles, before letting the quiet wash over them.

After hours of laying there in silence, just feeling the warmth of her stomach radiating through the sheet, he glances at the clock and gives a little groan. “Damn.”

Her heart drops as she remembers his job. “Jack—“

“I am so sorry to do this, but I have to go. My train leaves in forty minutes and I’m gonna miss it if I don’t run.” Jack pushes himself up off the bed, grabs his hat from a pile of cloths on the floor, then leans over to give her a lingering kiss.

She breaks away. “Jack—“

“Mrs. Humphrey from next door is going to get you everything you need. Don’t leave this bed, you hear me? You need a drink, you call for her. You have to go to the bathroom, you call her. Hell, you need to roll over? You _call her_.”

“Jack!”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to leave,” she murmurs against his shoulder, trying to keep her voice from trembling. She fails.

“Aw, Ace.” He sighs, running his hand up and down her back in a soothing pattern. “You want me to have them send someone else instead? I’ll call the office. I ain’t gonna leave you here if you’re still not feelin’ right.”

“No,” she sniffles, trying to hug him and push him away at the same time. It doesn’t really work, and he ends up flopping back onto the bed beside her. “I don’t want you to miss the rally, either.”

He stares at her, half exasperated and half concerned, from his sideways position on the pillows. “So …”

“So go,” she says, half laughing through her tears. “I’ll be fine. Go save the world, Kelly.”

He leans close to kiss her. “Keep my world safe while I’m gone, Mrs. Kelly,” he murmurs in her ear, his lips ghosting across her skin longer than strictly necessary. And then he is gone, leaving her cheek tingling in his absence.

The feeling fades far too fast.

* * *

She follows the doctor’s orders and remains on strict bedrest for the next two days. By the third she’s going out of her mind with boredom, having reread every book on the shelf two times over. She decides a reasonable first step is to make her way to the kitchen on her own, to brew a cup of tea. Surely that will be fine. It would be silly to trouble her neighbor for such a trivial matter.

For some reason she becomes tired halfway there, around the middle of the hallway. She makes her way immediately to the sofa, terrified of something going wrong again and hating herself for being so constrained at the same time. But when she looks up the frustration drains away. Sitting on her typewriter, placed directly in the ray of sunshine streaming in through their window, is a detailed watercolor painting of her flower.

The baby kicks enthusiastically inside her, and she smiles. “Your daddy was thinking about us,” she whispers softly.

And week later, when Jack returns to a healthy wife from a successful rally, she knows exactly what to tell him.

_The little flower symbolizes hope._


End file.
